Beginning: The Good Life
by Grade.A.Gen
Summary: So I got hit by a car and now I'm in the Hunger Games...damn. I'm screwed. If only I had read the books... "Excuse me while I puke on your shoes." Humor/Adventure. Self-insert. GaleXOc.
1. Prologue: Start!

A/N: So this is my first story, yay! I know this has been done a LOT, but bear with me, I want

to try and make it different, better than ALLL the others! Muahahaha….-cough-.

* * *

_Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who_

_matter don't mind._

_-Dr. Seuss_

* * *

Epilogue:

The Beginning

I wish my life could be filled with witty quips and catchy puns, but it's not. I wish my life could be a bit more like the romance books only read on a rainy day. Or maybe I could have a _bit_ more charisma, like the women in adventure books—not those bishy side-characters, the kickass main characters that always manage to save the day, get the guy, _and_ still have enough time to look picture perfect.

And yes, bishy is a word, albeit a Japanese word. The full word is bishounen, which is common knowledge amongst all otakus.

But it's not.

My life, that is. Sure, every once in a while I make a seriously beast comeback without stuttering, and maybe I do sometimes get itsy bitsy crushes on some of the more mature guys at school. Not that they ever amount to anything, it always somehow turns into a sort of fangirl obsession. Which explains my lack of love life. And maybe if I could figure out what exactly classifies a person as normal in a school full of the weirdest people I have ever met in my life, then I could possibly make it out of high school without all the embarrassment and awkwardness that comes with. Like, it would be a miracle if I could go an entire day without accidently putting my foot in my mouth or having to spend an entire lunch period -all twenty minutes of it- scrambling for something to say on the days where it seems like all I want to do is crawl under my pillow and disappear. And those days happen a lot more than I care to admit.

But that's not what this is about.

This is about me. Me getting sucked into this crazy weird adventure-like dream to another world.

How?

By dying, of course. That's how all these stories start, isn't it? Girl dies, gets sucked into her favorite anime/ manga/ book/ tvshow / all of the above? Well, nope, not me. Because even though I happen to know the word "bishy", I'm not really the anime/manga type. That's more up my friends cat alley. 'Cuz she's basically a bag of crazy. And hyperness. Which shouldn't really go well with my kind of, maybe, somewhat shy personality. But opposites attract, right? And we clicked like magnets. (The sides that attract). Or Peanut butter and jelly. She was pretty much the cara- to my -mel. Pronounced Care-a-mel. Because people say it wrong waaay too often.

But I digress. I'm more of a booky person, which is why it's so surprising that I have not read the book that now controls my life. And without further adieu-

This is my. . .adventure? Yeah, let's call it that.

* * *

A/N: First chapter EVER! I'm really excited to get some feedback on this experiment of mine. Of course, if I don't, that's okay too, 'cuz I really just wanted to get this idea out there, see how my writing can be improved and everything. But...you know...It's always nice, hahaha. REVIEW GUYS! And I really want. . .well, not flames, but constructive criticism? Yeah.

...  
Praise works, too. ^_^

'Til Next Time!


	2. Down The Rabbit Hole (Part I)

A/N: Second Chapter, ready to roll~ This isn't going to be a fast-paced story, more of a drabblish thing? Once it gets started, anyways. Maybe. Not sure yet, hahaha.

The next chapter is going to mark the beginning of her new life in the Hunger Games-verse.

* * *

_Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss, ends with  
a tear. When you were born, you were crying and everyone  
around you was smiling. Live your life so that when you die,  
you're the one smiling and everyone around you is crying._

_-Anonymous_

* * *

Chapter 2: Part I

Down the Rabbit Hole.

* * *

Chub. The classic "I'm not fat I'm fluffy" thing just isn't cutting it anymore. Fluffy…pffah. Sooo old school. Chub is the new thing. I'm not the curvy fat either. It's chunky. Like a big piece of tomato chunky. Chunky potato soup, chunky. So it's not like I can hide it—at all. Which sucks because instead of me being _just _shy and quiet, I'm also nasty fat. And that's something to avoid being when playing dodgeball in P.E. Trust me, I would know.

More square miles = More balls hitting you AND more places that hurt.

ANYWAYS.

I did what I usually do on weekdays. Didn't have any weird rituals or anything, honest! Just boring, normal things for a boring, normal person.

My room was fairly normal, too. If you count book covers replacing imaginary main-stream posters and the instrumental music shrine at the foot of a plain bed as normal. The walls were covered with a fading lime green/black stripes. It looked pretty bad, but it had been like that for so long that I stopped asking myself "What should I do to fix this" and replaced it with a "What can I do? ?" feeling. I've always been a bit lazy.

Just a bit. Maybe that was my sin.

I consider the walk to school as a part of my daily exercise regimen. Actually, its more of a run. The school is about one mile away and it sucks.

And so I sweat.

It's sad, I know. And that's why there's no point in looking good in the morning. Seriously. By the time I get to school the make-up would have already started running down my face. Ew.

Walking towards school has always been a mini-adventure for me. There was a park between home and school, so I always made sure to take extra time to enjoy the breeze. These days, everything seemed artificial.

Both people and nature.

I sighed. To be human is to be destructive. I've read enough history books to at least know that much. Sometimes, I wish Mother Earth was a real person so she could bitch slap humanity in the face.

But that's just me.

* * *

So, I get to school only to be tackled by my best (and only, but don't judge me! People just can't handle _this_) friend.

"Hey, hey, hey Kat!" Imagine Fat Albert's voice. Because that's what she just sounded like. And it looked freaky coming from a blonde-hair, blue-eyed stick figure. This is-was? My best friend Elizabeth. But she doesn't let anyone call her by her whole name. Last time someone did that, he ended up disappearing for two weeks. He still runs whenever he sees her. I don't blame him. She's crazy. And violent. But I wouldn't have her any other way. "You read that manga I gave you? It was good huh? The drawings are ok at best, but don't worry, it gets better! And-hey! Where are you-"

I walked away faster, hoping to get away from her and her crazy. I mean sure, I liked...ok, obsessed over books, did not mean I would enjoy the comics she would try to shove down my throat every week.

Sadly, she caught up to me.

"Hey!" She pretty much shouted in my ear, grabbing my arm and practically dragging me down the hallway. "You didn't even read it, did you? Well, anyways, I have a new one for you! And it's not even a manga. An actual book."

And of course she knew just what to say to get me interested.

"A book?"

"Yup."

"Not a manga."

"Nope."

I stared at her.

"Don't look at me like that! I can read books! They're just _super_ boring…but not this one!"

Stare.

"Ok, I get it, you're surprised."

Stare.

"But it's a really awesome book! _The Hunger Games_! I've read both books already, and now I only have to read the last one…" she paused. "Actually, I'm kinda sad, 'cuz when I read the last book, it'll all be over!"

Stare. She slapped me on the arm. _Hard_.

"Ow! What the hell?" I rubbed my arm, glaring at her out of the corner of my eye. "Ok, that's nice and all…I promise to look _The Hunger Games_ up later, but right now, I gotta go. See ya, Lizzy." It was almost eight.

"Mmk! I'll tell ya _all _about it during lunch."

* * *

And she did. Lunch came around and she told me pretty much everything. Except I wasn't really listening. I was in an intense game of pea-fork hockey. Left fork was losing.

"So Katniss is the main character" she started. "She volunteers for her sister in this thing called the Hunger Games that happens every year. It's not actually a game, of course, but a-"

Right fork scored! Wait, no, left fork is poking the pea down the plate, he really wants this goal, not letting anything stop him….

GOAL!

"-and then her district partner, this guy named Peeta, who saved her from starvation once, he's such a sweetheart! Doesn't know how to fight though. He's only freakishly strong. And their mentor, Haymitch? At first he's a deadbeat, but then-"

Oh no! They're only three peas left, it's down to the final three. Badum, Badum, Badum. The forks are trying their hardest! Left fork broke a leg! Right forks catching up!

"-so Katniss pretends to be in love with Peeta, pretty much _toying_ with his emotions, to get more sponsors in order to win the games. But Peeta really loves her, right? And then there's Gale who's loved her for the _longest_ time. And I feel so bad for Gale, because Katniss is the densest person ever. But then Peeta gets taken by the Capitol-"

Right forks starting to bend under the pressure. Only one pea left. Left fork only has three legs. Right fork attacks the pea from the left. But left fork gets it from the right.

_Mush._

"-Finnick is by far the….Hey. Are you listening?"

"Yup."

"What'd I just say?"

"What'd I just say."

"Funny."

"I know."

And that's how the conversation ended.

At the end of school we went our separate ways, and I headed home for what I didn't know was going to be the last time.

* * *

Darkness. I felt pain, and then nothing. It happened so fast. . . walking home from school, like normal, passing through the nature park, the leaves catching the sun, keeping both me and the ground cool. A street was up ahead, one I passed every day on the trip from home to school and back. There were cars going to and fro on the busy intersection, going on with their busy lives, never taking the time to admire nature. Of course, I waited until the walk sign light turned green, and started my slow trek through the crosswalk.I didn't expect that one lone car would barrel through the stop light, and hit me dead-on.

And my last thoughts were-

"Damn, I never read those books."

* * *

A/N: Second Chapter! Woot! I kind of like it….I'm still getting in the hang of this, so please feel free to criticize and flame, I have hard skin.

Kind of.

And just so you know…..

Praise works, too.

So Please Review~

Tridentsandsugarcubes: Glad to see you like it! Hahaha, you are my very first reviewer ever and now I understand why authors are always like "Please R&R" Feels good to be loved, you know? ^_^


	3. Down the Rabbit Hole (Part II)

A/N: FINALLY gets to the Hunger Games! So this is my first official disclaimer –laugh-, I feel so official…this is just the setting up, next Chapter will definitely have some adorable bonding moments!

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games does not belong to me, in any way, shape, or form….-sob-

* * *

_It doesn't matter if the glass is half empty or half full. Be thankful that you have a glass - and grateful that there's something in it._

_-Nishan Panwar_

* * *

Chapter 2: Part II

Down the Rabbit Hole

There was a wet, squelching sound. I couldn't breathe! I tried to scream, to shout, to beg anyone to save me from this horrible feeling of _helplessness_. This was death? This was what happened after people died? I couldn't help but think that I expected something a bit (a lot) worse than this, although the fact that I was apparently being suffocated was a downside.

And then I felt it.

I was being squeezed down a tube of some sort, head-first. My brain felt like it was about to explode, and I couldn't help but think that _this _is what it felt like to be bound, and I couldn't help my inward shiver –inward because I couldn't move my body- when suddenly, I was. . .popped? Out of that tiny hole and into fresh, cold air. All of a sudden the need to breathe became unbearable, and I did, only for my. . . small? Lungs to refuse my mental order. I panicked, arms and legs suddenly becoming mobile in the free space, feebly kicking and hands grabbing for _something_, _anything_ to let me breathe and _someone _to tell me what the hell was going on. My first prayer was answered when a firm hand slapped my back.

I could breathe!

My first action was to cry. I tried to stop, but it was like I wasn't in control of my own body. If this was my body. I didn't know what to think anymore, because obviously I wasn't dead.

Hopefully.

And I kept crying uncontrollably. I was startled, cold, wet, and terrified of this strange new world that I knew absolutely nothing about. Was this a dream? Some post-death hallucination produced by my over-active imagination? My frantic thoughts –not thoughts, fragments of logic- were interrupted by a deep voice that easily overpowered my cries.

"She's out!" a man cried, ecstatic.

"Get her wrapped up, she's freezing!" There was a shuffle, and then I felt a cloth being tightly wrapped around me.

"What's happening? Where am I?!" I tried again to shout, but all that came out was a warbling scream, slightly different from the previous high-pitched, screeching cries.

And all of a sudden it came together. I had been in anatomy class in high school and I knew the process of being born. The squeezing, the wetness, the uncontrollable wails that wracked my body…

"What should we name her?" the man spoke again. His voice was deep, soothing. But oh so defeated, beaten into submission by some force of nature. I pitied the man, and I didn't even know his name.

"We wanted Challah-Alstraemeria for a girl." A woman's voice, laced with sleep, answered sharply. Her voice was harsh and forceful as she snapped at what I guessed was my father. So she was my mother. A strange, disturbing thought.

"Yes dear. . ." he sounded resigned, and I wondered if he really wanted that name at all, or if he was just too scared to voice his own opinion. A submissive husband. "I'll go get you some water." He left the room just as another man spoke, his voice echoing through the room.

"Will that be all?" The question was obviously rhetorical, because I heard the man –possibly the mid-wife- slam the door.

I could not see when I had first come out of my new mother's womb, and my eyesight was still quite blurry. However, I surveyed my surroundings the best I could. It was a small room, with only one bed and was dimly lit with four large candles. I turned my attention to my mother's face. She was pretty, even covered in sweat and still panting with the strength it took to get me out. It was too dark to tell what her exact coloring was, but her eyes were a dull sky blue and her hair was either a dark blonde or a light brunette.

But my brain could only process so much. I had seemingly been reborn as a baby, and I had no idea where I was. I felt like crying again, but the shock of dying coupled with the fatigue from being born sent me into a deep sleep.

* * *

Two years had passed, and I now knew where I was. How did I find out? My little brother was born.

Peeta Mellark.

Of course I had heard the family name before, but I had always just written it off as a coincidence. And if I heard any talk of the Capitol or the Hunger Games, it was pushed out of mind. It wasn't hard. From what I had overheard my father found the Hunger Games to be a barbarous, unneeded practice, and never allowed me to watch them. And my mother? Surprisingly, she sort of had a heart. I had caught her once or twice giving a free loaf or two to the parents of the deceased tributes.

I was naïve, but extremely intelligent for my age, probably due to the fact that I wasn't really a two-year old, but now an eighteen-year old. I had been babbling words since I was a baby, but my first clear word was spoken a couple of months ago in December, a month after my birthday. I had been practicing softly to myself three months before that, wanting to get it perfect. My father was kneading the dough for the bread while I sat right beside the flowery surface, watching him hum to himself. It was always warm in the shop, so District 12's bitter winters didn't affect my family as much as the poorer parts. The counter was too high for me to jump off of, and so I said-

"Daddy!" I giggled childishly and clapped my hands. "Off! I want off!" And swung my legs for emphasis. My father stopped humming abruptly. He turned to me and gave me such a bright smile that I couldn't help but return it.

"You want off, honey?"

"Yes!"

He stopped kneading the dough, which he had been doing even as he turned to talk to me. Wiping his hands off on the dirty apron around his waist, he picked me up with his large hands, bending at the knee to set me down safely on the powdery floor. Even when he let go, he stayed kneeling, staring at me with a soft smile. I stared back, confused.

"You wanna go to your mommy, Meria?"

I shook my head and frowned. "I wanna stay with you, daddy!" He smiled got even brighter and he laughed softly, shaking his head.

"I promise I'll come with you. . ."he trailed off, looking around dramatically before leaning down conspiratorially in my ear. "save you from the _witch_."

I laughed and nodded.

It's wrong to love one parent more than the other, but my new father was my favorite. When not in the presence of that woman, my mother. I don't know why he married her, they didn't love each other, and when she was not around, I found him looking out of the window facing the seam longingly, and that scared me. I didn't want him to go away to whatever dream he had, I wanted him to stay with me. Not that my mother wasn't kind. Sometimes she would smile and pat my head when I had done a task well, but even then it was like she expected it from me. There was no praise, no words of encouragement, only a pat and a dismissive "good job."

She wanted a son, she had told me once, when my father was busy. He tried to never leave me alone with her for too long. A son was strong, someone who could aid her in picking up the huge bags of flour needed to make bread. More resilient and less emotional than a daughter. Tears covered my face as she walked away, and I think maybe she _wanted_ to hurt me. She loved me, sure. But not as much as she would love a son. At least, that's what I thought for the first year after she had Peeta.

* * *

A/N: So if anyone's curious about the name, here are the reasons I picked two (even though she's going to have one or two nicknames, lol)

_Alstroemeria_: (al-stra-mē-riah) I changed it to Alstraemeria because it sounded girlier, haha. It's a flower that symbolizes wealth, prosperity, and fortune. I can really imagine Mrs. Mellark choosing that name, because I imagine her as a generally selfish and greedy person, no offense to people who actually like her. Plus, it is also the flower of friendship, and later on you'll see exactly how friendly Meria is.

_Challah_: (chal-ah) a type of bread, 'cuz you can't come from a bread family and not have a bread name, you know? It's a special Jewish bread eaten on the Sabbath and on holidays.

I have thick skin, so I can take the heat and everything! Need some feedback, you know? I can take flames, but you know...

I like praise,too.^_^

Review and Happy Spring Break!


	4. A Childhood Treasured

**Author's Note: **So there's a bit of fluff and humor in this chapter as promised. . . More fluff than humor, though. Plus, a kind of somber tone in this chapter. I really wish I could just skip to the _Hunger Games _timeline (_or _when Meria meets Gale, hehehe) but you know. Gotta keep with the flow of the story and all. . .sadness.

**Update Schedule**? I plan to update at least once a week, I'm pretty excited about where I'm going with this story.

**Disclaimer**: _The Hunger Games _is not mine! Wish it was, but it's not. So I'm just using Suzanne Collins' amazing characters ^_^

* * *

_He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced-or seemed to face-the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself._

_-Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby_

* * *

Chapter IV:

A Childhood Treasured

* * *

I stared.

He stared back, his bright blue eyes clashing with my own.

This was the boy who would grow up so fast? The boy who was broken _over _and _over _and _over _again? No brother of mine deserved this. No brother of mine should ever have to go throught that. Peeta shouldn't have to go through that.

Slowly reaching out, I tentatively grasped his outstretched hand, shaking it slowly.

"Hello, Peeta."

He was only six months old, and I could already tell that he would be a strong, compassionate boy. Peeta never compained and was only happy when he was in someone's arms, being held and loved. He was in his crib now, staring down at me (since I was short, I was only tall enough to reach the top of the mattress holding him in, and could barely tip-toe high enough for the crib to allow my hands access to my new little brother.

"Gurgle." He let out a happy noise, and I imagined it was a greeting.

"I'll protect you, you know," I whispered fiercely. "There's no way I'm gonna let you get dragged into the Hunger Games." And although there was little I could actually do when the time came to prevent him from being exposed to that horrid world, I swore I would do my best.

He laughed then, as if he had actually understood what I had said, and I smiled.

I would protect him. Even if it destroyed the plot line. Whatever that was.

Already, Elizabeth's words were fading away, and I hadn't exactly been paying close attention to her explanation of the series, being too busy playing pea-hockey with forks and all. Bits and pieces would come to me at random times, like the bit about mother, one day she had me clean the pig pen and I was so _upset, frustrated, angry_ that she didn't even look at me when saying it, when all of a sudden:

"_-a bitter, mean bitch. Totally deserved to die in the-"_

And a little about Mr. Mellark, too. It happened on one of those days when he was looking out of the window facing the Seam:

"_-in love with Mrs. Everdeen, poor guy. They would've made such a good couple! Only married Mrs. Mellark 'cuz-"_

I had a lot of flashbacks about Peeta, too. But I discarded them. Partly because I didn't want my little brother to become a character to me, but mostly because I wanted to learn these things on my own. I was interrupted from my daydreaming when a voice called.

"Challah!" my mother called from the kitchen.

I sighed. "Yes mother?"

"Come here!"

"Yes mother."

I looked at my brother. His innocent eyes fluttering closed even as his small hand clung to my pinky finger. I said a silent goodbye as I pulled my finger from his clutches, leaving the room and unaware of the wide blue eyes that followed my form to the door.

* * *

"Yes mother?"

"What is this?" she pointed to the lone piece of bread lying on the counter.

". . .bread?" Obviously.

She turned it around, showing a single small piece that had been torn off.

"Now what is it?"

". . . torn bread?" And where was she going with this?

Mother sighed, annoyed at my cheek. Was I being cheeky? I don't know. All I know was that father had torn that piece of bread to give me as a treat. It was the first bakery order that I helped him make. It was an "accidental" extra –not really, my father _never_ made extras- and he had not wanted it to go to waste.

She slapped me upside the head abruptly. Swift and painful. Not maliciously, but unemotionally, which I felt was even worse. My eyes watered. Not because of the sting of the blow, but because the only thought running through my mind at that moment was:

_She doesn't love me. She hates me. She doesn't love me. Doesn't love, doesn't love. . ._

A continuous mantra, pounding into my brain.

"Go to your room." Her monotone voice broke through my thoughts, and I admit. I ran away shamefully. One day, I wouldn't run. One day, I'd show her what for. But not today. Today, I was two years old.

I did not go to my room. I went back to my brother's room, gently closing the door behind me and once again approaching the crib. I did this often now. Spilled my burdens, my fears and worries, poured them all to him. He who, without fail, would smile and laugh that absolutely perfect laugh that took away that heavy load and seemed to say:

"Everything is going to be alright."

"I am eighteen years old now," I said aloud, partly to Peeta but mostly to myself. Reaffirming who I am was always important to me. Especially since everything I knew from my old life was slowly but surely disappearing into a haze of memories. Yesterday, I almost couldn't remember my name. . .that was scary. Would my personality disappear, too? Could I be losing my identity unconsciously in order to peacefully assimilate into this strange new world? I didn't often think about these things, they hurt my two-year old brain. I continued on, "I was thrown into this world in a freak car accident. My name was Katri Dunber. I do not know why I am here. I will help my brother." And other such things.

I must have been there for about an hour venting to my brother and the world in general, before my father came in, back from his delivery run. He entered the room and pulled me into a hug, squeezing once before releasing me enough to be able to look at my face.

"Hey honey, how was your day?"

I wanted so bad to tell him what had happened, but I held me tongue.

"Great!" I plastered a smile unto my face. "Thank you for the bread, it was yum." And apparently, in _The Hunger Games,_ sarcastic banter didn't exist in the world of adults when dealing with children.

Or maybe it was just him.

"Did you take care of your brother?"

"Of course!" I puffed up my chest in pride. He chuckled.

"Your chores?"

"Most of them. . .?"

Silence. Stare.

Pout.

Stare.

_Super Pout_.

Stare. Twitch.

Puppy eyes.

An exasperated, "Alright"

I beamed. He ruffled my shoulder-length blonde hair fondly.

The only way I could be happier right now is if my new family only consisted of me, father, and Peeta. But it just wasn't meant to be.

"Time for dinner!" speaking of the devil. . .

* * *

Dinner was always awkward. If not for my father's obvious day-dreaming eyes, then because the witch _knew_. Knew about his fantasies, his desperate longing for Mrs. Everdeen. I don't even know how I knew that she knew, I just did. The way she pretty much glowered down at her food. . .this was the only time that her face didn't express bitterness, or some other strong negative emotion. It was a melancholy expression, and it swallowed her face, bringing out the haunted side of her natural beauty.

After dinner, my father carried me to my small room, and laid me gently down on the bed.

"You're a big girl now, right Meria?" his voice was odd. And just a bit desperate. I locked eyes with him, searching.

"Yessir," I slurred tiredly, playfully saluting.

"And big girls get to watch big girl things, right?" his eyes watered and my own widened with realization. A heavy silence filled the room. The playful mood was gone.

"Yes, sir," I answered slower this time, watching as a lone tear escaped his eye.

"Tomorrow, you're going to watch something. It's a-" He stopped himself. "A _game._ The Hunger Games."

And even though I was for all purposes, mentally eighteen, his words still chilled me. I had never seen such violence in my past life, though I had heard and read of wars and senseless killings. I knew the basics, some from Elizabeth, but most from what I had inferred for myself, watching people's reactions and their hushed, quiet defiance. Even then, there was something. . .perverse and plain _wrong_ with the idea of sending _children _to fight and _kill_ for a game. And now I would be exposed to the true horror of this world.

"Yes, sir."

And that's when I knew, my childhood was over.

* * *

A/N: Good? Bad? Review~ Not much dialogue, I know, and I want more dialogue, too. . . so I'll be working on that next chapter. I think I explain things a _bit_ too much, but that's just who I am, lol.

To TypeWriter'sAreCool:

Thanks! Actually, that's pretty much why I did it, I'd been searching for a falling into Hunger Games story for sooo long, I was finally like: "Pfft, if no one's doing it, I will!" I'm actually hoping more people will start writing stories like this, 'cuz I like writing about as much as I like reading. Which is a LOT.

Challah is Hallah, but I read on Wiki that the words were interchangeable and Challah sounds more like a name than Hallah so that's my excuse, hahaha. I spent a while just searching names, trying to find the perfect one.

And nope, lol. No brothers other than Peeta. I know in canon Peeta has two older brothers, but I can't really fit them all in here, I'm still a bit of an amateur writer and I don't wanna have more characters than I know what to do with, ya know?

Once again. . .

I have thick skin! Burnnn mee, lol. No, not really. Need some feedback, though, ya know? I can take flames. But. . .

Praise works, too. ^_^

~REVIEW~


	5. And So It Came

**Author's Note**: _The Hunger Games _is here! Lemme see…roughly fifteen years before canon (74th Hunger Games) sooo I get to make up 24 characters! Welcome to the….58th Hunger Games! Not. I'm only going to focus on two or three, and probably only 7-10 of them will have names, maybe not even that many. But sorry, no actual Hunger Game-ing in this chapter. . .

**Disclaimer**: I wish I owned _The Hunger Games. _But I don't. So..yeah.

* * *

_Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do." _  
_― __Apple Inc._

* * *

Chapter V

And So It Came...

* * *

I woke up in the morning with dread pooling in my stomach at what I would have to endure for the next two or so weeks. I went through the morning robotically, all the while wondering. _Who would be reaped today? _What unfortunate souls would have the rest of their lives stolen away from them in order to ensure the submission of the districts while simultaneously providing entertainment for the monsters of the Capitol? These thoughts plagued me, and by the time noon came around I felt fifty instead of two. I was eating my breakfast in the solitary comfort of my room when my father walked in. His head was bowed, hooded eyes furtively peeking through dense lashes in my general direction.

"Good morning," he said. Was this a good morning? It was a good mourning, that's what it was. A day to properly mourn the poor souls and families of those souls, the souls who would be lost forever: because I remembered a fact my best friend had told me, once upon a time. _N__o one _won in District 12.

No One.

"Hey, Father," I refused to call it a 'good morning.' To pretend that all was right in the world, when in a few hours, twenty-three lives will be destined for death. Father came in the door, still looking at his feet, and sat down on the very edge of my bed, furthest away from me.

"I'm sorry this has to happen," he began, "but I should explain to you exactly what the Hunger Games is."

He paused. Either to wait for a question that would never come, or simply to gather his thoughts, I don't know. I stayed silent even as his brow furrowed and his hands fidgeted. He took a full minute to collect himself before he began anew.

"The Hunger Games is a punishment," so he decided to be frank, after all. Curious."There are eleven districts besides our own. Each has their own industry, but you'll see exactly what products they sell later, in. . . I'm not explaining this well, am I?" He got up suddenly, nervously running his hands through his hair as he paced around the small room. "There is a man called President Snow. Actually, he's more like a dictator, a person who rules a bunch of people unwillingly and with force. He rules over all the districts. There was a rebellion -that's when someone goes against someone that has more power than them- fifty-eight years ago, that involved all thirteen of the districts." _Thirteen?_ "He destroyed District 13 with these big things called bombs. They destroy things, you see. They're really _really_ powerful." _Oh. _"So, you see, when he did that, all the Districts surrendered. We, the Districts, weren't a match for that kind of power. After that, he devised this. . ._game_," I could just hear father's disgust when he said it. "It's supposed to prevent it; the Uprising is what we called it, from happening again. Every year, they choose two people. Tributes, they call them," he snorted. "More like sacrifices. Anyway, they choose two from each District, ages twelve to eighteen. 'Them' is the Capitol. That's the base of operations for the whole shinding. They grab children, and throw them together in an arena for _entertainment_." He stopped abruptly, as if even discussing the people of this 'Capitol' was so abhorrent that he couldn't bear the thought of imparting their stench onto me. Which was sweet, in a way.

But I was curious about one more thing.

"What happens to the winners?" He stopped pacing, stopped fidgeting, stopped everything. He turned slowly, and appeared in front of me so suddenly that I almost screamed. But his eyes, they stopped me. Heated and lit with the passion of his answer.

"There are none."

I froze. And I doubt I would ever be so frightened again. I had never seen father like this. Never heard that dead, defeated tone in his voice. Wound up and filled with hatred. It emanated from him, crushing the room with its weight.

Metaphorically, of course.

But it felt real and so I reacted as if it was. Hunching my shoulders and lowering my head as if to protect myself from the emotion that clouded my father's face. How many times had he seen the Hunger Games? Watched from a television screen as child killed child, became _murderers_, in the name of peace?

And now.

Now he had me. And Peeta. And I can only imagine what was going through his mind as he told me this. That one day, I might be one of those children. Killing, being killed.

Father must have realized how intimidating he looked, because he abruptly turned around and attempted to fix his expression. I knew this, because when he turned back around he wore a mockery of that smile I loved so much. But I didn't say anything, choosing to let him continue his explanation.

"There's a process to it, a _random _picking of names from two huge bowls: one boy, one girl. There's a big stage," he gestured wildly with his hands, attempting humor. I smiled slightly, but remained still on the stiff bed. "that the tributes are escorted onto. These events are live and televised, so sponsors –I'll tell you about them later- can scope out the _prospects_. You'll see a bunch of people dressed up out there. Then there are _volunteers_. People who go into the Games for the glory and fame, to bring _honor _to their district." He spat the word 'honor' out as if it was the most charred piece of bread. "No one in District 12 is suicidal enough to go into the Hunger Games willingly. Even the -" he cut himself off briefly, glancing hesitantly at me, unsure if I had been tainted by the world, yet. But I could finish that sentence easily.

The most desperate, the starving, the ones with no hope. Even those people don't go into the Hunger Games.

He picked up where he left off.

"-most arrogant people know where to stop with their shenanigans. Now, the Capitol people who come dress. . .differently. Well, they're. . ." he searched for an appropriate word, making faces as he did. "Freakish. . .? Yeah." He nodded. "Don't even think of them as human, honey. They ooze fakeness. They might-"

"Artificial, you mean?"

"Huh?" He scratched his head for a second. "Yeah, artificial." He patted my head affectionately. "I almost forgot how smart you are." I grinned. "so, where was I? Oh. . .huh. Lost my train of thought. Well. Sponsors are the wealthy Capitol people. They bet on who will win and basically help either their personal favorite, or the one most likely to win. Which is why it's so important for tributes to present themselves well in front of the cameras. You'll see," his eyes darkened at the prospect of me actually watching the Hunger Games. Somewhere during this long lecture he had taken a seat beside me on the bed, staring at the blank wall.

There was a moment of silence, me thinking on the things he said, absorbing everything before I had to face the real thing, and I don't know what he was thinking. His face was vacant, there was nothing there for me to read. He patted his knees with both hands and jumped up suddenly, smiling wryly all the while.

"Well! I'm gonna come back for you, but I have to go feed Peeta and make some deliveries. I should be back in time for us to walk together to the reaping. Be ready and please help that woman bake while I'm gone, ok?" We both knew he was talking about mother.

"Mmk,"

And he walked through the doorway, closing the door gently and leaving me in the bare room. As my father left, my emotions left with him. I stared at the closed door numbly. Was this the same book that I had so easily dismissed?

No.

_This is real now_. I had to stop thinking of this as a book. Peeta, my precious little brother, was _not _a character. These people were real. Real lives. Lives that happened to be written in a book. Like. . .a history book! Yeah. I was just in one of the many histories of the universe. That could work. Yes, that could work very well.

So with my new theory of the universe cemented, I stared at the door mindlessly for about five more minutes before I stood to leave. There was a window in my room, and I estimated that I had about three hours before noon, the time of the reaping.

* * *

I walked into the hallway, and was immediately assaulted by the smell of bread, so thick I could almost taste it.

Mother was already baking bread, and I wondered why. She doesn't usually make bread in such large packs. The home smelled of flour and bread, so much so that when I first went downstairs to the door leading to the bakery and opened it, I choked. On flour. It was everywhere! In the air, like a thick dust and wafting around the kitchen, settling on the countertops and plates. Even the wooden dinner table looked ashen.

"Much to do, today!" she hummed. I was surprised by her mood. While father was somber, mother was practically bursting with joy. Didn't she know what was happening today? That if not twenty-three, then two people from _this _district were being sent to their deaths? I resisted the urge to shout at her. It wouldn't do much anyway. My voice? Soft and Smooth. She would probably just laugh.

"Why are you just standing there?" Oh no. She noticed me. Back away, back away, backawaybackawaybackaway-"come in!" an order. She walked over to where I stood, frozen. "Go on, knead the dough," she ordered in a kind voice. The countertop was still too high for me, so she laid out some premade dough and set it off to the side, and then picked me up and set me right beside it.

"There!" she nodded to herself, satisfied. "you comfortable? Good! I'll be kneading over there" she pointed at the opposite side of the room, "so just holler if you need help." She said that, but her eyes said _yell my name and imma- _

I nodded mutely.

Two hours of mindless kneading later and I was exhausted. All I knew was soft, pliable dough making squishy noises on my small, pliable hands. Mother had left not thirty minutes after she sat me up on the counter, claiming that she had deliveries to make. But not before grabbing her pile of un-kneaded dough and plopping it onto my table with a "Be a good girl and knead this for mommy, ok?"

"Meria?" Father's voice came from the front door. "It's time to go."

"I'm on the counter!" I shouted. He walked in and saw my dilemma. He stopped in the doorway, raised his head upward, and murmured unintelligibly. I did hear "that woman" many times, though. He came towards me and easily picked me up. But didn't put me down.

"Father?"

"We need to get you ready, and I'm faster," he laughed. We, excuse me, he, ran up the stairs with me screaming in fear and joy the whole way. When he got to my door, he put me down. I was covered in flour, not exactly in dress-ready condition.

"Go on. I'll be waiting in the bakery," and I was alone, again.

I washed my body with water, and looked towards the cubby I kept my clothes in. There weren't many fancy dresses to choose from. Blue or green?

Blue.

Green.

_Doggy….doggy….diamond…. says to step….. right…. out. _

I chose the green dress. It was simple, with puffy sleeves and a high collar, with a little bow sown on the waist. The rest of the dress fell to my knees limply, hanging on loosely. I really didn't understand why I had to dress up for this event, but father told me to, and so I would. I slipped on a pair of brown boots and went downstairs. Father was waiting outside with the door open, and every five or so seconds he would discreetly glance towards the stairs. When he saw me, his face was grim. As if he was going to a funeral.

And maybe he was.

"Want a ride, honey?" and I would've said no. I was a big girl, I didn't need someone carrying me around! But when I looked up at his hopeful face, I sighed. This wasn't for me, this was for him. This would probably be the last time he felt that he could hold me before I became twisted by reality.

And if I wanted the ride too, just a little bit, I would never admit it.

"Ok," and he picked me up and swung me around so I landed on his back. We started our slow trek towards the District Square.

"It's time,"

"Mhmm," I murmured, burying my face in his back.

Those were the last words we spoke before the Reaping.

And I saw something strange there, someone with different eyes, different from the crowd of people that emanated _hopelessness, despair, defeat_.

And so I smiled.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Yeah, I think instead of making the chapters the same length, I keep going _longer _and _longer _and_ longer_. Hahaha. And yes there's going to be a brief canon character mention in the next chapter, just 'cuz I have to introduce them all somehow…..not that they're going to meet or anything.

Or are they? Hehehe…

This was really long, though…I don't know what got into me! I was thinking about separating this into two chapters, but. . . there was no good place to cut it off. So hence the 2,491 word chapter.

Queen of the Type Writers: Hahaha, can't have any toothpicks around me. You see, I had one in my mouth, forgot about it, and tried to give my lil sister a kiss on the cheek…yeah. :'( Yup, the mom is pretty cruel. Collins never says anything nice about her, and I'm trying not to totally bash, so this is what came out of it. I only remembered because when I read that part, I was like "Awww! Like father, like son!" Get it? Except Peeta actually got the girl.

Alice Williams: Thanks! Challah's only two now, though. She _will_ meet Gale soon, I'd say in about….two-three chapters. I know I started it at a young-ish age, but there's going to be a time-skip after this Hunger Games is over. I'm trying to fit the whole thing in the next chapter, but no promises! ^_^ And her volunteering for Prim? Hmmm…I'm still not sure if I should totally go with the book when I get to that point.

IsobelFrances: Thanks! Glad you like it! I'm really trying to update once a week, so if I don't, you have my permission to….hmmm. Any crazy torture you can think of :P

Now, guys…I can take the flames. Criticism is good and can help me improve my writing. Even ideas are welcome! Because right now nothing is set in stone. Sooo…

BURRNNNN MEE. Not really, that'd make me sad. Feedback would be nice, though. And remember. . .

Praise works, too. ^_^

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	6. The Reaping

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the uber long wait! Or maybe it wasn't that long? Two and a half weeks isn't that long, right? But yeah, that's all I gotta say. The reaping and the brief meeting.

* * *

_I know that somewhere in the Universe exists my perfect soul mate, but looking for her is much more difficult than just staying at home and ordering another pizza._

_Shubham Joshi_

* * *

**Chapter VI:**

**The Reaping **

* * *

It was a good day, warm, with clouds covering the hot, unrepentant sun. Father had put me down about halfway there, and I could feel myself beginning to sweat. The trip wasn't long, but it felt like it. The road was silent. There were no children playing or any normally lively homes, only the occasional frustrated yell and boarded up windows.

It was a depressing sight.

We finally reached the Square, and I felt even more depressed than before. There was already a crowd forming outside the square, loved ones who came to pray for the young adults still in the vicious game of chance. Father and I went up to the very edge, only a line of peacekeepers separating us from the pickings. He hoisted me up on his shoulders so that I could see better. I almost protested —why would he think I wanted to see this?— but held my tongue.

The show had just begun.

"Hullo!" a high-pitched voice greeted us. On the stage stood three people, all important-looking. Except for the drunk guy almost falling out of his chair. Wild blonde hair framed his face, and his aura just screamed:

_Kill me now. I'm so bored. Bored. Boooreeed. Lemme get back to my drinking. I am sooooo drunk right now. Druunnnkkk._

"That man over there?" my father whispered, his head tilted slightly towards the sober man on stage. "He's the mayor. Like, a leader, except he has virtually no power. He's pretty much a puppet of the Capitol. Never bothered with his name….Kol-something. And-" He was cut off by the woman's shrill voice.

"Welcome to the 58th Hunger Games! Aren't you all just excited? I know I am!"

Silence.

She coughed daintily in her hand. Father was right, these Capitol people _were _bizarre. She wore a hideously big rainbow afro-like wig, and her face looked like flour threw up on it. Her eyes were the worst. Even from this distance, on the big screens on either side of the stage, I could make out feline green eyes. Her clothing was even worse. An oversized Victorian-styled dress which was extremely gaudy and unappealing, topped off with a horrific mix of the colors red and orange.

"Well then, let's move on to the video!"

Video? Father never mentioned a video…. But it was too late to ask, as the screens seemed to magically expand. Huh. I didnt know they had television here. Oh, the possibilities...The video began.

"War, terrible war." It started ominously. A cartoon image of a field splayed with blood and cartoon humans appeared. I cringed, I had never felt comfortable with the sight of blood. I hardly felt Father's hand intertwining with mine.

"Widows, orphans, a motherless child: this was the uprising that rocked our land. Thirteen Districts rebelled against the country that fed, loved, and protected them. Brother turned on brother until nothing remained. And then came the peace."

_Peace? _You call _this life _peace? I had it easy, being a part of the merchant side of District Twelve. I had never been to the Seam, never even seen it. But I _knew_. Knew how much they suffered.

"Hard fought and sorely won. People rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost. When the traitor was defeated, we swore as a nation that we would never know this treason again."

Cue heroic music. I opened the eyes I never realized were closed.

"And so it was decreed that each year the various districts of Panem would offer up in tribute one young man and woman to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage, and sacrifice. The lone victor, bathed in riches would serve as a reminder of our generosity and forgiveness."

A beautiful image appeared on the screen then, one of gold and a single cartoonish figure standing on a pedestal, smiling while eating grapes and candy and rare treats I never got the chance to taste. Then, I realized what the background of the glorious scene was.

_Blood. So much blood. _

It tainted the background's grassy floor. Heads rolled behind the pedestal, and various other body parts were strewn around. And yet the victor smiled. Suddenly the smile didn't seem like an expression of happiness. It morphed itself into a bloodthirsty smirk. And I realized what my Father had said just the night before.

_There are no winners._ _None_.

I almost fainted. I almost passed out, falling off of my father's back as this whole….situation truly sunk in.

_I'm not going home. One day I'll be one of those tributes. Could I become that one survivor?_ Because now that I had seen the video, I refused to call those sad, _sad_ souls that survived an inevitable, almost impossible situation, victors. From now on, they were survivors. And I had high hopes that I would be one, too.

I mean, how many books had I read that involved someone being sucked into a book or alternate universe? The character _never_ got through the series unscathed.

The video ended.

"Wasn't that just….so moving?" the gaudy woman sniffled into a horrid-looking multi-colored tissue. She put it away after a few more seconds, then beamed at the dismal crowd.

My eyes were watery, too. But for an entirely different reason.

"Now!" She coughed suddenly, breaking out of her reverie. "The tributes of District Twelve….let's start with the girls this time, shall we?"

She walked towards two bowls filled with what must have been the names of the possible male and female tributes. Huh, I hadn't even noticed the huge bowls…

The woman stuck her hand into one of the bowls and dramatically caressed the outermost ones before plunging her whole hand in. After what seemed like endless "Hmmm"s, she jerked her hand out of the bowl. Everyone held their breath.

"Bryony Gelsey!" and the poor soul's name was spoken. No one moved.

Suddenly, there was a shuffling of feet. I looked over to the fourteen-year old's section. A girl stood in an empty circle. Her surrounding age mates had given her up. Shunned her, as if she had some contagious disease.

She looked so young! From the Seam, too, judging from her emaciated –_not that Merchants were much better off, unless they sold food_– and tanned skin.

Many more seconds passed.

A minute.

Peacekeepers began to march over to where she stood, frozen. The crowd of people were not much better off. They kept their eyes faced forward towards the stage, not even daring to look at her from wherever they were. These people didn't even resemble humans right now. They were mechanical, unmoving, unfeeling, motionless to Bryony's desperate silence. She had no family, or maybe she did, I didn't know.

And even if she did—would they? Would they go against the Capitol? Or if they would— like Katniss, volunteer so that their sibling could live another year?

But Bryony Gelsey, a person I had never met and never knew, who was so much older than me, yet only just starting to bloom, was going to be destroyed in the Arena.

She moved suddenly, and the aura around her changed, as if she had resolved something to herself. The peacekeepers paused, as if they had anticipated a fight, and continued towards her in order to escort her to the stage, just in case.

Her head was held high, now. I couldn't see her face as she was walking to the stage, but her back was poised, under control. I marveled at her, even as my eyes began to water.

_This person_. _This person is going to die. And I've seen her_.

This wasn't like watching some horrible tragedy on the news where some random person had been killed. This was _live_. And I, actually all of Panem, had a front row seat to the murders of family, friends, and strangers, in their respective districts.

_This is sick_. It wouldn't be the last time I thought that in the years to come.

Bryony Gelsey reached the stage and stood there. She was roaming the crowd with her eyes when the shockingly bright grey orbs landed on me. I stared back, transfixed. It was a silent sort of conversation that went something like:

"_How old are you?"_

"_Young."_

"_This will be you one day."_

"_Maybe."_

"_Do you understand this sick game? It has to be stopped."_

"_Yes."_

"_Be careful, and may the odds be ever in your favor."_

And then it ended. My eyes were spilling tears. But I saw it. I saw her eyes. They were different from the crowd of people that emanated hopelessness, despair, defeat.

And so I smiled.

Her gaze remained on me for a few more seconds before flitting away, to pass the message on to all of the ones too young to participate, the ones not yet corrupted by fear. I rescanned the crowd, searching for her next target. It turned out to be a boy around my age, carried on his father's shoulders. The mother was right beside who I now assumed to be her husband, rubbing her swollen belly lovingly, not even paying attention to the Reaping.

His eyes remained locked to hers for about a minute, before they swiveled to face me. I blushed awkwardly and shyly raised my hand. The boy raised his hand as well, and we grinned at each other. I turned back to the stage to gaze at Bryony Gelsey.

I didn't hear the boy tribute's name, too busy staring, defining, and trying to figure out Bryony's odds. I didn't think I'd be able to handle having a deep inner conversation with _two _people. It was hard enough with just one, I was mentally exhausted.

Seriously. I zoned out until the ceremony was almost over. I zoned back in when my father began walking away, just as the last phrase was muttered.

The last words of the day were:

"…And may the odds, be _ever_ in your favor!"

And with a flourish, the gaudy announcer and the two tributes were gone.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Ok, so I'm probably, maybe going to start the humor part next chapter. I dunno why, but I keep going all dark/grimy, sooo...yeah.

Anyways—

Hey guys! Be sure to check out a kind of, not really, connected drabble-fic to this: _The Comedic Shorts_. I have 2 chappies out already! Sooo…responses to reviews~

Ducklover2:  
Thanks! Hahaha, and thanks for reviewing every chapter, made me feel all warm 'n fuzzy inside xD

IsobelFrances:  
Hahaha, nope. Gale wasn't the one, though he _was _in the chapter. Was actually planning on the first person being Katniss, but I read your review, and I was like "Huh, Gale? Alrighty!" LOL.

Queen of the Type Writers:  
0_o…..Wow. Lol, I should probably do that the next time my bro thinks it's a good idea to wake me up at 7 on a SATURDAY just to ask if he can use my computer for games. Smh. Thanks for the idea! xP  
Oh, I think that'd, make any sane person an uber brat. I'm always half-awake for school, and your talking 4 o'clock? Nope. No way, lol.

And noowwwww…..-drum rolls- Criticism is good and can help me improve my writing. Even ideas are welcome! Because right now nothing is set in stone. Sooo…

BURRNNNN MEE.

Not really, that'd make me sad. Feedback would be nice, though. And-

Praise works, too. ^_^

~ReViEw~


	7. The Hunger Games

**Author's Note: So, I decided to just make this chapter pretty much dedicated to Bryonny's brief journey through the Hunger Games in Challah's eyes, soooo...not gonna be very long. Plus, I wanna get back in the _groove_. Hehehe...**

**_Enjoy~ _(OH! Important end of chapter note on the bottom, guys)**

* * *

_**"Hold fast to dreams,  
For if dreams die  
Life is a broken-winged bird,  
That cannot fly." **_

_**- Langston Hughes**_

* * *

**Chapter VII:**

**The Games**

* * *

The Hunger Games had finished.

Like a dream, albeit a horribly grotesque one, they had ripped away twenty-three lives. And no, Bryonny Gelsey did _not _make it. Not even to the Final Four. The boy tribute hadn't even gotten out of the 'Bloodbath.'

I was glued to the television, always silently rooting for Bryonny to come out on top. How cool would it be if there was one more victor? One less death from District Twelve?

And so I watched.

There weren't any clear winners—people who initially caught the sponsors' attention—during the recap of the Reapings of the other districts, and so my hopes rose. Only to be dashed over and _over and over_ again. Both by the hidden talents of the other districts compared to the glaring weaknesses in Bryonny. She didn't have any weapons training. She was no Katniss. In fact, for all of the bravado she had shown on the day she was taken, she revealed a dire handicap.

She stuttered.

Not too much, just about every other word, but it was enough. There's no confidence in a stutter, stutters were _not_ optimal. The sponsors were immediately repulsed by her inability to string up a proper sentence without tripping over her words.

The training scores didn't help. She got the third-lowest score, a five.

And her interview with the young and virile Caesar Flickerman made me cry. Flickerman tried his best, but even he could not salvage whatever sponsors she had had left. By the end of the interview, Caesar's charismatic smile had shifted into one of sympathy, and Bryonny Gelsey was red-eared and humiliated.

The interview was fair enough to begin with, before taking a rough turn down 'No-no Land.'

"_So, how have you been enjoying your time here at the Capitol?" Caesar asked. The crowd stayed silent, awaiting her answer. _

"_I-it's been g-g-great!" she exclaimed. The crowd cheered, seeing her stutter as shyness, adoring her even more for it._

"_Aw, no need to be shy, Bryonny! We're all friends here, yeah?" The crowd roared in agreement. Instead of relaxing, Bryonny tensed even more. _

"_Y-Yeah." She muttered quietly. Disgustedly. But I felt like I was the only one to completely understand her tone. _

_When the crowd settled down, he continued. "So, what have you been up to? Any plans for when the Games start?"_

"_Y-Yes. Um, I am r-r-really g-g-good, um, at r-r-running a-and, um, I am c-c-confident that, um, I c-can, um, out-r-r-run any t-thing, um, out there." The whole thing took her about four minutes to get out, and by the end of her response, her face was red at her failure._

_The crowd remained silent. Whether they were shaking out of their awe by her less than stellar delivery or not was uncertain. Caesar attempted to salvage the remaining couple of minutes._

"_Such confidence!" He aimed a stunning smile at the crowd, prompting them to cheer as they had before. A few scattered claps were heard. "Confidence is good! One last question. What do you think you're chances are in the Hunger Games?" He leaned forward conspiratorially, as if waiting for her to share a secret. _

_Bryonny Gelsey opened her mouth—_

"_None." Deadened, defeated. So very different from the girl I had seen on that stage in District Twelve, ready and fierce as she stared out into the audience of relieved faces. Faces that were glad that she was chosen. That it wasn't a loved one this year. The people of District Twelve counted themselves as lucky. There would be no one mourning Bryonny Gelsey. _

—_And shattered any remaining chance she had to gain sponsors._

I liked to think of that moment, as I watched the screen go blank after Caesar's customary closing statements. My face was ashen, realizing exactly what she did. Not the how, not the why, but the action itself. She didn't want to win. She didn't want to go home to a place where _everyone_ would view her as something different.

Something _dangerous_.

But she didn't want to give the Capitol the satisfaction, either. Bryonny chose _not _to march to the Capitol's fife.

And I admired her all the more for it.

And hated her at the same time.

But mostly admired.

As I thought of my thoughts before the Hunger Games had started, I realized exactly how _naïve _I had been about the whole thing. These were _lives_. Human lives being paraded about before being thrown into an arena like those medieval gladiators. I recalled all the things I thought before the games and scoffed at them. _Scoffed_ at thoughts that only two weeks ago would have made perfect sense for me to think, and this left me frustrated. And appalled at my ignorance.

I wouldn't think about it.

I would tuck this information in the back of my mind, because really, who would _want_ to know all of this depressing information? I'm positive that I would go crazy if I held onto all of my past moral opinions and philosophical-istic worldviews.

…and that was the first time I had thought of these things in such detail. I promised myself that I wouldn't do such a thing.

_For the sake of my sanity_. I told myself.

But promises were made to be broken, and when I met that little boy with whom I shared that glance at the reaping of Bryonny Gelsey, I decided that—

_Promises were made to be broken._

_._

_._

_._

_End._

* * *

**_A/N:_**

**Sooooo sorry! It's been too long, waayyy too long. Thanks for all of my lovely peeps for stickin' with it. I'm going to work super hard for y'all! I got writer's block, then I kind of lost my muse, but I was thinking about creating a Naruto/Harry Potter crossover the other day, with Luna as the main character. 'Cuz she's seriously under-appreciated. And needs to be written. Like, ASAP. **

**Please forgive me, guys. **

**Demented Kawaii Kitten: I am soooo sorry! Feel like I've let ya down, girl. Forgive me? And about your brothers….Ugh. Hahaha, I'd go crazy, don't know how you can stand it, lol.**

**Ducklover2: Yes, chapter six. And now, chapter 7! xD **

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**~Review~**


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